


Head Hunter

by Lightspeed



Series: Monstrous Intent [14]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Amputation, Anal Sex, Death, Dismemberment, Dullahan!Soldier, Dullahans, Faun!Scout, Fauns & Satyrs, Frottage, Gore, M/M, Magic, Monsters, Undead, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 19:05:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1439449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightspeed/pseuds/Lightspeed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lots of people collect things.  Sometimes for sentimental value, sometimes for aesthetic fancy, sometimes because they might find use eventually.  As Scout finds out, Soldier’s collection is more personal, yet practical, than he’d originally thought.</p><p>(Any depictions of gore, violence, amputation, death, and dismemberment are not part of the sexual content of this fic.  However, this fic does contain sexual content involving the undead, and can be rather upsetting/off-putting due to this.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_April 28_ _th_ _, 1945_

_This project isn't quite as_ _ dead _ _as I'd previously lamented! A skirmish broke out not far from this shack I've holed myself up inside. It was loud, violent, and very short, and when I was sure all was silent, I emerged from hiding to inspect the carnage. Some necromantic reagents delivering themselves to me would certainly be convenient._

_I hadn't realized how convenient. Amongst the carnage lay three corpses hacked to pieces with an entrenching tool. Judging by their uniforms they were Germans, and not far from the mess, two more corpses lay. One was another German, exsanguinated from injuries and clutching the offending shovel, which looked to be of American issue. Its owner lay not far from the thief, free of injury save for being completely decapitated. His head lay nearby, seated upon its stump. I had nearly missed it, the blasted man's helmet working to camouflage it, lending it the appearance of a rather morbid mushroom._

_A man, dead on foreign soil, felled in combat by his own murder weapon. Decapitated, no less. If that isn't portentous, then I've truly lost any understanding of what that word means anymore. The strings of fate puppeted him to my doorstep, just as my magics and no small amount of muscle dragged him over the threshold._

_I must prepare the ritual. Those fools called me an amateur! I, Merasmus, a master transmuter, a master evoker, master of illusions and soon to master necromancy! They had no idea whom they were talking about, and I will show them all when from the depths of the underworld I drag them screaming down with me to the sound of hoofbeats!_

 

*

 

Merasmus inspected his handiwork, rubbing at his chin and lower lip in thought. Upon the floor laid a five-pointed star made of lines of ash, overlaying a series of runes and magical equations laid out in a summoning circle drawn in powdered yew and wormwood. At each point of the star, an offering lay. A small gourd carved in the shape of a human skull, a candle made of tallow rendered from horse fat, a human spine (extracted from one of the corpses outside), a wheel with spokes made of crows' femurs, and at the tip facing the wizard himself, the corpse itself's severed head, free of its helmet, its stump rubbed with a mixture of salt and apple oil, as was the body it used to be anchored to. It rested in a shallow bowl of blood. A circle of gold powder surrounded the whole thing, to bind, and to protect himself.

Everything seemed to be in order. Paging through the tome in his arms, Merasmus went over the ritual's process once again.

"Yew, wormwood, salt, gold, offerings, rub the body and stump of head in an infusion of immortality."

Merasmus looked up from his book and chewed on his lower lip, then back down. "Infusion of immortality. Just list the damned components," he grumbled, making a note to hunt down the tome's author and give them a good slap. "Immortality could be anything. Ambrosia nectar, linden, sage, amniotic fluid, apple," he listed off, looking to the apple oil sitting on the table beside him. "Such inaccuracies in summoning magics, I don't know how conjurers stand it."

With a grunt, Merasmus dropped the book on the table beside him, making the bottle of oil wobble precariously close to the edge. He shot it a glare and it stilled immediately.

Clapping his hands together, Merasmus knelt before the circle, intoning ancient, eldritch, forbidden syllables in whispered breaths. His hands began to move slowly before him, gentle movements tracing arcane designs in the air with light twitches. Necromancy was, by far, the fiddliest, most excruciatingly exacting of magical schools, requiring the utmost specificity in order to achieve the desired results. Animating unliving tissue, calling forth spirits, and warping flesh was, at best, a fast and loose process, in demand of very rigorous methods of control to keep it in check. Merasmus sniffed as he finished his chant, amused at how simple such processes were for those who sought to study and pay attention to them. Transmutation was similarly exacting, and he'd sculpted it into an art. What difference was there between living and dead bodies under the hand of the arcane?

Dedicated necromancers were pedants, looking to glorify themselves and feel so special and mysterious. Posers, really.

Shadows began to gather around the circle, stealing the light from the room in grasping, cloying tendrils until the entire room was bathed in darkness. A grey glow began to rise from the lines of the pentagram at the middle of the room, spreading out like flames across the circle until the entirety within the bounds of the powdered gold was bathed in grey, dull light. Merasmus grinned, stepping back without cause, his eyes fixed on the pale corpse at the circle's center. The thick carpet of shadow that coated the entire rest of the room receded into the circle, bleeding underneath the body and subsuming itself into it, and with a horrible bubbling, took up residence inside of the stump of its neck. Inside the bloodless skin that was the outside of the creature, a black void of shadow, bleak and horrible, was all that could be seen, extending down inside and away into infinity. It was then that the corpse began to stand.

It was slow at first. Jerky, with stiff muscles that were not supposed to work any longer. But carefully, against the will of nature itself, the American soldier's corpse climbed to his feet, stretching and trying to work out the soreness in its shoulders as it came to its full height. He was shorter than Merasmus himself, but broad, and muscular in spite of his physical age. He was a fine, hale specimen to be molded into an instrument of destruction. The soldier's torso tilted to and fro, and he appeared to be getting a feel for his surroundings, but wasn't quite sure how to look around without a head to turn.

"Dullahan!" Merasmus barked, snapping the animate corpse to attention. "I am Merasmus the Magician, your summoner and creator. By what name shall I address you?"

The dullahan sort of half-shrugged and seemed to fidget for a moment, unsure. Finally, from the hollow depths of his insides, a slightly echoed voice rang out, "Jane?" he replied, testing his ability to speak more than actually asking anything.

"Jane?" Merasmus echoed with an eyebrow raised. "Not exactly the most threatening of names."

"Sergeant Jane Doe, reporting for duty, sir!" the dullahan barked, more sure this time.

The wizard sputtered, snatching up his tome and quickly snapping through the pages. "Sergeant? You've retained your mortal mind?"

"I have no idea what that means," Jane replied in confusion, raising a hand to where his face would be before remembering that he didn't really have a face anymore. "Hey, have you seen my head? It doesn't look like I have one anymore."

"Shut up," Merasmus mumbled, tracing his fingers down a well-thumbed page. "Infusion of immortality, that's the only thing-- wait." He flipped to the back of the book and turned back three pages, and jammed his forefinger against the paper. "It's here in the index. Infusion of Immortality, page three-hundred eleven. Blast that Ramocam the Bladed Hand and his pretentious editing!" He flipped to the appropriate page, grumbling about modern tomes and codices lacking the style and mystical ephemereality of the good old days. Who even puts an index in a volume of necromancy? What sort of sorcerer cross-references?

Jane scratched absently at his side and took a step toward Merasmus, eager to try and peer over his shoulder, in whatever capacity he could do anything which could still be classified as 'peering'. His boots scuffed over the arranged herbs and oils, but upon reaching the circle of gold ringing it all, he stopped. His legs would not move, his hands would not raise. Even attempting to lean through its space, he found his body unresponsive. He could travel it laterally, move away, but never over or through. He stomped, chasing the ring for its full circumference as Merasmus spat and hissed at the author of his tome.

"Infusion of immortality typically a combination of oils and salts, yes yes, okay--herbal components limited to sage and reagents of supernatural origin? What?" Scanning the page, his eyes homed in on a set of warnings at the bottom of the page. "While for transmuting and conjuring, immortality and its companion associations do not commingle in any negative fashion, one must take care when choosing a component that does not muddy the nature of the infusion. As such, components such as Linden, which can be associated with Love and Sleep, along with others, or Apple, which is also associated with Love, can provide an impure infusion, which will disturb rituals used to create sapient undead creatures."

"I like your place, Merasmus. We'll be great roommates! So, is this my room? Is that why I can't get out of here?" Jane gave up walking the circle and stooped over his own head. "Is this mine?"

"Yes, it's yours," Merasmus mumbled, snapping his book closed in fury. His eyes turned to the bottle of apple oil on the table, and with a hiss, he sent it flying to the nearest wall to shatter and soak the dry, worn wood of the little shack. Inconceivable! With the barest of effort this all could have been avoided! A simple foot note, an aside, a damned accurate set of instructions! Instead, he'd created...

"Hey, this is my head? Hello, my head! You're very handsome for being a severed head!"

...this.

"I wonder what happens if I try to put it back," Jane mused aloud, turning the head in his hands and raising it up.

"Dullahan, do not--"

Jane set the head atop his neck, slowly pressing its prepared stump to the rim of flesh that gave way to the endless void within him. It was an instant reaction, flesh knitting together to become smooth and whole again, as if nothing had ever happened. The head's face began to move as normal, colour returning to it and to the rest of Jane's body, leaving him looking completely intact and surprisingly alive. Setting a hand to his breast, Jane could even feel his heart beating.

"How is that even--"

"That's a neat party trick!" Jane declared, stepping out of the ring of gold with only the effort of lifting his boots. "So, Merasmus, what are we doing for dinner tonight?"  
  
"We?"  
  
"Well, I mean, I just moved in. I haven't had time to stock the pantry yet," Jane reasoned with a shrug, looking about. "Is my helmet around here?"

Merasmus watched the seemingly living undead pace the smallish confines of his hideout, eyes wide, lip quivering. Necromancers were pedants. They also had cruel sense of humour.


	2. Chapter 2

Hazy, blurry eyes swept over a line of severed heads sitting on a fence, squinting as they tried to hurriedly examine each for signs of decay. Several were rather far along, but a few were fresher, only a day or two old, and would work as the rough materials for which they were needed. But which one would last longest?

Soldier peered close, his nose nearly brushing the cheek of the day-old head of the RED Sniper, its eyes closed, its tongue poking between its lips, the blood having drained out of it and down the wood of the fence post like drippings from a candle, black with time and oxidization. He'd waited too long, and now his eyes were going. Glazing over white and losing focus. Soon they wouldn't work at all, and without a new head chosen, he'd be forced to expose himself to get a better look.

Dammit.

He knew better than this, but time was so easy to allow to escape in a place like this, at 2fort, where tensions ran high and free time was at its minimum. He loved the base. It was awful for infiltrating the enemy and defending properly, but it meant long hours and little downtime. Carnage, bloodshed, and the thrill of the fight were near-constant companions, keeping his sluggish heart pumping and his voice whooping with cries of victory and defeat. But when it came to personal maintenance, the base was a dangerous place for a man with a secret.

Grasped the Sniper's head in both hands, thumbs carefully smoothing across the flesh of its face and checking for areas where it was too soft. Picking one that would last was important when he had so little time to fix things, and he had to be sure it wouldn't start looking like moldy cheese or go blind in a day or two in spite of the binding magics that would help preserve it. Not like the one he was wearing now. With a frown, he decided. It was fresh, so it was time to fix it up a little.

Lifting it from the post, Soldier used his thumbs to pry the head's eyes open, staring into glassy, lifeless blue eyes with his own cloudy counterparts. Sniper's eyes were sharp, and dying with his eyelids shut meant they weren't exposed to the elements over time. It should do. His breath left his lungs, a darkness beginning to seep out of his shadow and crawl up his body. He pictured himself, the man he'd been when he was alive, the man whose form he continued to inhabit. He pictured Jane Doe, a man masquerading as a United States army sergeant with no past or history, but a rifle, a shovel, and a purpose, murdered in that field in Poland almost a quarter century ago. He imagined the sloping forehead, heavy brow, and strong jaw he knew so well. In his hands, he began to feel bone shift and change, shadows creeping down his arms and over his fingers to consume the head in blackness. The transformation was fast, and loud, cracking bone and visceral squishing of meat and fat and skin filling Soldier's failing ears as the head changed completely, taking the form of his own, where once it had been the enemy Sniper. The darkness disintegrated into particulate, whisping off into the air and fading out of existence to reveal the changed head.

Almost done.

 

*

 

Hooves hit the dirt hard as Scout came to a halt, peering up at the low roof he'd just leapt from. 2fort was always so boring. Sure, fighting was fun, and ever since he'd ended up some kind of freaky monster, the other team was more than a little freaked out, which was pretty great for messing with them. The look on his RED counterpart's face when he'd learned the origin of the weird clicking sounds following him down to the intel room was worth it alone.

But the down time was the problem. What little there was often found the team maintenancing their weapons and getting extra sleep, finding little time for actual leisure activities. Nobody to watch TV with, everyone too busy to just hang out and talk, and getting laid was even a scarce luxury when all of the other guys on base were sore and grumpy. He'd found himself satisfying his needs as a faun more often than not by doing all of the work while one coworker or another laid back and let him go. Lack of sex made him even more listless than usual, with the bonus of incredible fatigue. He couldn't go without, but it would be nice if the assholes picked up a little of the slack. They were getting laid for free, for fuck's sake!

He had the itch again, and he was restless. Heavy was cleaning Sascha. Medic had paperwork. Spy was working on deciphering some intelligence. Sniper and Demoman were holed up in the bushman's van for some alone time and not amenable to a third for their fun. All for the best, what with the small quarters of the van's tiny bed. Pyro never left his suit, unwilling to ever play with Scout in such a way, and Engineer tended to partake less since his transformation, unless Scout was really hard up. The shorter man tended to be unnerved by his nonhuman anatomy, though he seemed a little more amenable when a hot mouth was wrapped around his cock. A man of scruples, that Engineer.

Soldier, however, had been nowhere to be found, missing for at least a few hours, and in his wanderings around the base, Scout had finally gotten curious. It was a small task for him to climb and explore the base, jumping and running, bounding about from awning to roof to eaves to ground and back, tip-toeing across balconies like a goat in the mountains, digging his sharp toes into dry, cracked wood as he climbed. The BLU base wasn't as forgiving as he'd like, with heavy concrete and steel structures where the opposing team's environs were mostly wood, but there was something satisfying about the sound of hooves on stone and metal that helped Scout not to care.

If there was anyone who could be persuaded to give him a hand or a handy, it was Soldier. Certainly, he was a stubborn old cuss, but all the same, he was easily distracted, and rarely turned down a good romp in the bedroom. Or rec room. Or pantry. Or on the porch. Or in the bed of Engineer's truck. Or that one time when Scout had been reaching into Medic's fridge to find the piece of cake he knew was hidden behind a jar containing a baboon uterus and Soldier had begun grinding up against him. The older man ended up taking him right there, with the door hanging open, Scout clutching the refrigerator floor for dear life as liquid sloshed in jars around his head, his antlers caught in the top rack.

He'd ended up having them amputated by a rather infuriated Medic upon being discovered post-coitus. Soldier had been ejected from the room, while Scout found a bonesaw carving into his antlers, wrenching screams from him even through the haze of anesthetic. Not before the good doctor had a turn at his presented backside, of course, but he certainly knew how to ruin the afterglow, medigun or no. His antlers had regrown under the beam's effects, but it was little balm for his pride, particularly now that he had to see them mounted on Medic's wall every time he entered the German's office.

Trotting 'round one of the sheds of concrete that dotted the base and its surroundings, a small meter room out behind the silos, Scout found what he was looking for. Soldier was crouched there in front of the fence where he kept an assortment of various heads he'd taken from enemy corpses.

The heads were special to Soldier for some confusing reason, trophies removed from the battlefield and taken back to the respawn room for later placement out on the fence, claimed from the bodies of opponents the unstable mercenary had deemed worthy. They were grisly trophies, but nothing so strange that Scout hadn't seen similar things in his time. Certainly, the propensity for his squad mates to claim ears or fingers during the Conflict had helped numb him to the strange, distasteful practice. He'd never understood it, really. A good story of a good fight was far more interesting than showing off a chunk of a guy. Also easier to impress women with.

Not that he'd ever had much luck with that either.

Scout raised his hand, approaching at an easy amble, ready to call out a greeting to his friend when he was stopped dead in his tracks, the wind leaving his sails. Soldier had placed the head he held in his hands, by all appearances the RED Soldier's head, back onto the fence post, and grabbed hold of his own jaw. He began pushing upward, like he was trying to force his neck to stretch, to shove the head from his own shoulders, and as unlikely as it was, that was exactly what happened. A thin, dark line of red, nearly black in its depth of shade, split his neck just below his chin, spreading from front around to the back. With a wet sound, the flesh separated, strands of gore and thick, congealed blood clinging to both halves of the parting meat and bone as he lifted his head from his neck, removing it in a clean line, safe for a bit of clinging viscera. The head in his hands ceased expression and motion, lying dead in his arms, and began to rapidly change colours, growing nearly green in its immediate decay. The headless body of Soldier tossed the offending object into the desert, and that's when Scout finally regained his voice enough to shriek in horror.

Soldier's torso turned to face Scout, who backpedaled in terror, hooves digging into the dirt as he looked for a quick escape route. Before he knew what had happened, Soldier was on him, shovel in hand, bearing down atop him as he fell backward to the ground.

Scout yelped, clawing at the dirt, trying to drag himself away, but went still as he heard Soldier's voice booming with a soft echo, "SCOUT!"

He braced himself for respawn.

"Don't tell anyone, please." Soldier's voice was quiet, scared, and though it came from seemingly nowhere and everywhere, roiling out of the emptiness within him, making Scout's head swim as his ears struggled to adjust, it brought the faun to his senses, opening his eyes slowly, still ready for the impact of the shovel to bring oblivion.

Soldier's flesh was pale, all the colour drained from it and leaving it white and sallow. Where skin would be a ruddy pink from blood flow and use, it was a purplish grey. His chest did not heave, and he did not breathe. Most curious, his neck was not a bloody stump, but a hollow, empty vastness that made the younger man's stomach knot a little just looking into it. He smelled vaguely of dust.

"You have to promise not to tell anyone, Scout. They will fire me if they know I'm not alive," Soldier pleaded again, grabbing hold of Scout's shirt and making him go stiff again.

"Soldier," Scout began, unsure, still shaking. "What are you?"

Soldier dropped the shovel, holding his hands up as if he were looking at them. Scout made an assumption based on the angle of his neck. Sitting back on his heels, Soldier's neck craned upward, as if he were looking to the sky in thought. "Do you remember the Horseless Headless Horsemann?"


	3. Chapter 3

Soldier slumped, picking at a straw of hay, unsure of what else to say.

"So you're dead, but kinda alive, like a zombie or somethin', but you're like, a person, too, an' you can hide as a living guy so long as you got a head. That's right, right? I ain't missin' anything here?" Scout asked, trying to collect his thoughts and wrap his head around Soldier's story. It was filled with several asides and patriotic rants and a few grumbles about Merasmus and the word "familiar" being thrown around a few times, but overall, he'd managed to piece together the gist well enough.

"Yes," Soldier confirmed, still headless.

Scout grinned. This was all sorts of wicked. "So how do you see without a head?"

"I'm not sure. I just do. I see everything around me at the same time, not like when you're looking through eyes and just see what's in front of you," Soldier explained, his neck bobbing about as if there were a head to emote sitting atop it.

"An' you hear like that too?"

"Yes."

"That's wild. So your skin's all pale an' you're all cold 'cause you're a dead guy-- so how come you aren't like the Headless Horseless Horsemann, all bony and with a dumb pumpkin head an' stuff?"

"Merasmus didn't do the ritual right. And the Horsemann is a hack. He wears the pumpkin because he thinks it's scary, and he's too lazy to take care of himself, so he just let himself rot off," Solider grumbled, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "No pride."

Scout approached, peering at Soldier's neck, leaning in uncomfortably close as the dullahan recoiled in surprise. "So what's inside you?"

"An endless void of nothing."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Wow!" Scout peered in, feeling the small hairs on the back of his neck stand as a shiver tried to snake down his spine. "So is it dangerous?"

"I don't think so. I talk out of it," Soldier reasoned, then went stiff as Scout jammed a hand into it, slipping easily past the edge of his neck and plunging wrist-deep into the void.

The inside of Soldier's neck was cool, and there was a gentle humidity and sense of motion that reminded him of the fog that rolled out of a freezer when opened on a hot day. He felt around, trying to find purchase on anything, but finding nothing as far as his hand could reach. Even bending his wrist past the entrance and reaching up into what would be the empty air over his shoulder yielded nothing but more misty void. Past the edge of his neck, Soldier's insides were an infinite, vast, cloyingly dark emptiness.

Soldier shook a bit, strange sensations spreading through him at odd angles. A warmth blossomed in his chest, traveling the length of his torso and pooling in his abdomen, a fullness he couldn't grasp seizing him and making his knees lock. Somewhere between hunger and lust, Soldier found his mind hanging in a strange, almost-sated limbo, like being at the cusp of an orgasm, or like the first bite into an anticipated meal on an empty stomach. It was a feeling that he found he quite liked, but made him ache all the same.

A soft, muffled, gasping sort of sound echoed past Scout, making the hairs on his arm stand up.

"What was that?" Scout asked, quirking an eyebrow and trying to suppress the shiver that wanted to roll through him.

"I don't know," came Soldier's voice humming around his warm flesh, making that shiver manifest and jerk his shoulders about. "But it feels good."

"Neat!" Scout declared, sliding his hand out and letting Soldier go slack again. His fingers began to trace the edge of Soldier's neck, making his reprieve a short one as immediately, the dullahan responded to the sensation, tensing and letting out a completely audible moan. With a grin, he dove forward, making Soldier nearly fall over with the force as the faun slammed into him, burying his nose in the crook of his neck and beginning to kiss.

He bit down gently, laving over cool, undead flesh before latching on with his lips to suck the thick, sluggish blood that refused to pump through his body to the surface, marking him with a dark, almost-black hickey. Whimpers rewarded him as Soldier's hands gripped tightly at him, nails digging into his back and butt as his neck tilted out of instinct, moving aside the head he did not have to allow him access.

Scout nipped and sucked his way up Soldier's neck, tracing lines of sinew up to where his jaw should be, where neck ended abruptly in a smooth line and dove down into the abyss. He reached that edge, where flesh ended as if it were designed to, his tongue snaking out to lick along it, to taste the cool skin there. Scout's tongue buzzed, almost vibrating with a cold numbness, making his lips tickle.

Soldier's body heaved below him, undulating as he gasped without need to, his chest and belly rising and falling as his hips twitched upward. Nails scraped down Scout's back, the hand on his butt squeezing tight as he clutched the younger man close against his body, groaning his pleasure.

"Glad I'm not the only one weirdly turned on by this," Scout mumbled against his undead skin, kissing the rim of his neck and enjoying the strange numbness that made his lips hum.

"You are turned on by everything," Soldier countered, his voice trembling in spite of himself.

"Yeah, that's true. Oh man, I bet Snipes is gonna be so jealous."

"But--"

"He's gotta know. He told me he's been wantin' to screw around with one 'a you guys. An' he'll be so mad I got to you first," Scout chuckled, licking him again.

Soldier gasped, tugging Scout down into his lap and grinding up against him, desperate for contact as he strained through his fatigues. "Does that mean you want to--"

"You think I'm gonna stop now? I ain't no tease, Sol." Scout bit at the side of Soldier's neck, then climbed off, shucking his shirt and working at his belt. His tail twitched, poking out of a hole in the back of his knickerbockers, eager to be free of the fabric. His cock sympathized, already pressing painfully against the layers between it and the air.

Soldier watched Scout dimly for a moment, watching his trousers slide down furry hips to pool on the floor, leaving the faun standing there in nothing but a jock strap, his dog tags, and a lurid grin. He'd never done anything like this in his natural form. In fact, the fact that he was even able to get an erection had been a surprise, let alone being able to maintain one. There were probably a lot of medical impossibilities Medic would have a field day trying to understand and perform tons of tests on, but Soldier was reasonably sure blood had a lot to do with it, and his didn't run properly like this. What that meant practically didn't really matter to him much anymore, however, as he watched Scout turn around and show his butt to him, tail swishing from side to side as he bent forward, presenting his furry little backside in all its glory as he pushed the jock strap down his hips, thighs, and to the floor. He stepped out of the heap of clothes and looked to Soldier expectantly, frowning a little.

"Hey, the show's free, but I like a little audience participation, man! You gonna get naked or do I gotta undress you, too?" he asked, cocking a hip out as he turned around, stroking his cock slowly with one hand.

Soldier snapped back to reality, his neck lashing about as he looked about, then set to undressing, tugging his jacket off with a little difficulty, then shedding his t-shirt and setting to his trousers. He was soon naked, and returned to his seat, strangely self-conscious for the barrel-chested mercenary. He certainly wasn't shy about his body normally.

Scout took a moment to get a good eyeful of his teammate. He was as thick and broad as ever, with a deep chest, muscular core, and just enough hair to keep him interested but not enough to hide the outlines of his lats and serratus. His skin was nearly white with a slight waxy cast, corpse-like with all visible vascularity a dull shade of grey-purple. He was hard, his cock a similar grey-purple, bruisey colour, rather than the vivid reddish pink it normally showed, especially dark on the small knobby bit of flesh that was his circumcision scar. A naked, headless body sat there before Scout, sexually excited and eager to touch him. He tried to push out invasive thoughts that made him question why he found this so sexy, instead focusing on the fact that he was hard to the point of discomfort, and Soldier wanted him. That was all that really mattered.

Climbing back into the dullahan's lap, Scout hissed in a soft breath as he settled in, their cocks brushing and the temperature difference truly sinking in. Soldier was room temperature at best, chilly at worst, and nowhere was this more stark than when the supernaturally cool skin of Soldier's cock touched Scout's, hot and pulsing with blood and need.

"Shit!"

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, just wasn't expectin' it to be so cold. It feels-- It feels kinda good, actually," Scout admitted, wrapping a hand around their lengths and holding them together, his buck teeth worrying at his lower lip as he relished the sensation. Slowly, his hips began to move, rocking against Soldier and rubbing together, soft flesh sliding roughly together.

Soldier grunted softly, taking hold of Scout's hips, his fingers sifting through fur where it gave way to flesh. He arched up into Scout's grasp with each roll, the blissful friction warming his flesh and making him shake. He felt his vision grow dim, hazy into darkness with lidless supernatural perception. Touch and scent and sound exploded into the void, every gentle hitch of Scout's breath, every barest movement, the smell of the faun's pheromones and sweat electric, vivid to his senses. That strange fullness in the abyss returned, and with it, Scout's tongue to the edge of his neck.

"So if you're a dead guy, does that mean it'll be hard to get you off?" Scout teased between licks, lips brushing against cool flesh and making Soldier shake and whimper.

"I'm already close," the dullahan admitted, gripping Scout's hips tighter and urging them to faster motion, to harder rutting as hands slipped down to grab his bottom and squeeze before returning to moving him.

"Shit," Scout gasped, letting him be moved, letting Soldier take charge with surprising strength and force him into frenzied bucking against him, his hand picking up speed around their cocks. Heat blazed through him even as the coolness of Soldier's skin leeched it away from him, electric burns streaking down his spine as pressure built within his guts. Soldier was so cold, but so hard, and their flesh pressed together in Scout's hand, nearly flying over them as he tugged his way toward completion. "Me too—AGH!" Interrupting himself, Scout came between them, sticky heat spilling into his hand and slicking their movements as Soldier continued to drag the shaking, moaning faun in his lap.

Soldier's torso threw back, neck craning as he held Scout fast, coming in turn. His voice was not a moan, but a howl, empty and guttering, echoing from the darkness within him and bringing a chill to the small shack. Shadows extended from beneath his feet, crawling across the floor and up the walls, smothering cracks and blacking out windows until the ceiling was covered and the small room subsumed in complete darkness. Scout blinked, his jaw falling agape as he clung tightly to the shuddering body beneath him.

As the horrible noise petered out, fading into silence, so did the shadows, receding into his own in a sudden jolt of motion and light, motes of dust dancing in the sunlight that desperately began to stream in through the windows. Scout was left blinking in confusion as Soldier panted beneath him, fingers ruffling through the fur on his butt.

"You, uh, you okay, there?" he ventured, removing his hand from between them to lick at the sticky fluids covering it. After a moment he realized he probably shouldn't be ingesting semen from an undead monster, but shrugged and continued.

Soldier watched intently, though Scout couldn't tell. "Yes. I am very okay. I've never done this without a head before," the dullahan explained, breathless in spite of not having to breathe.

"So I just popped your zombie cherry?" Scout laughed. "Oh man, that's awesome! You're officially a horseless headless horseMan now!"

"One more and I will mount your head on my wall, Private."

With a laugh, Scout slipped off of Soldier's lap and snatched up his clothes. "Sir, yessir. So, you're okay with me tellin' Sniper?"

"If you think he will be okay with it," Soldier ventured.

"Oh man, no, you don't understand, you'll be right up his alley. He fucks monsters, man, that's like his freaky fetish or some shit! Shit, that's why he an' Demo--" Scout froze, looking over to Soldier to see if he'd registered what he'd said.

Oh yeah. No face. Fuck.

"What about Demo?" Soldier asked, confirming Scout's mistake.

"Shit. Okay, uh, you have to promise not to tell anyone, okay? 'Cause he'll kill me if he knows you know. And then Snipes'll kill me. And then they'll both kill me over an' over forever."

"I promise."

"Okay, so you know how he kinda disappears for a night every month or so, an' how lately Sniper's been doin' the same? Well get this..."


End file.
